


name one thing on earth lower (than a tough guy)

by orangesparks



Category: Those Who Can't (TV)
Genre: F/M, but i'm a sucker for their weird chemistry so sue me, i'm trash, just like shoemaker and this show in general tbh
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-11
Updated: 2017-02-11
Packaged: 2018-09-23 12:33:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,113
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9657674
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orangesparks/pseuds/orangesparks
Summary: Shoemaker isn't creepy, isn't desperate, anddefinitelyisn't interested in that weirdo Abbey, with her witch wardrobe and tiny doll hands.





	

Contrary to rumors started by jealous co-workers - he is _not_ desperate, thank you very much.

Abbey takes a swig from her beer, rolling her eyes.

"Stop talking to yourself. It's creepy."

"I am _not_ creepy, thank you very much."

"Half of Smoot would beg to differ. Look, are we doing this or not?"

He huffs out a derisive laugh. "Are women always so impatient?"

"Are men always so intent on tearing down women?" she shoots back, eyes narrowed, and-- uh-oh. That's the same look she had on her face when she first started distancing herself from him.

Panic creeps in at the thought of losing her-- no, losing _this_. Friendship. Right. He leans across the bar, hands outstretched for her shoulders, small and lovely and hidden beneath yet another hideous shawl from Pottery Barn or wherever the hell she buys her witch gear.

"Are we doing this, or not?" he parrots, lips stretched into an unnatural grin. She scoots away, grimacing.

"Not if you keep up that weird robot smile. This isn't Westworld. Just... relax."

His eyebrows shoot up to his hairline. _Relax?_

"Shoemaker... look. This is a matter of convenience, okay? That's all. No strings. We already agreed."

His face falls. "You don't have to make it sound so-- _cheap_."

He refuses to look at her as she sidles closer, enveloping his larger hand in her own slender ones. ( _Doll hands_ , Loren once said. _She's got tiny doll hands._ Not a compliment.)

She strokes his hand, slowly, manicured nails lightly scraping the tattooed knuckles, and God, what does it say about his sex life (or lack thereof) that even _that_ is enough to get him excited?

Maybe more damage has occurred below than even he realized. The thought is a sobering one. He's no longer sure he's ready for a woman under sixty - specifically one who's often made clear just how amusing she finds said genitals - to get a closer look just yet.

He clears his throat, willing away his budding arousal in favor of the barely-contained fury that always serves him so well. Now's not the time to get emotional, after all.

"Are you sure my _weird_ penis will be suitable for your needs?"

"Mm-hmm," she breathes, missing the anvil of sarcasm. He snatches his hand back as if scalded. The welled-up bitterness is too much to ignore.

"Maybe this isn't such a--"

" _Sit down_ ," she snaps, and he immediately collapses to the floor in a heap - then scrambles to rearrange his limbs into something more casual cross-legged, less splayed like fresh roadkill.

She looks more surprised by his compliance than he is, he thinks, but she quickly recovers, a mask of apathy sliding over her face.

"You will do as I tell you."

"Yes, _ma'am_."

(He'd wince at his own subservience if he didn't have complete academic curiosity in where this is going.)

  
-

  
Not that he's thought about it much before, but - honestly? He'd expected her bedroom to have less rope, more hand-painted kitten figurines. Of course, there's always the possibility that it's left over from some macrame project.

"Are you sure those are tight enough?"

"Of course they are! It's not like those nine years I spent with the Girl Scouts are all for naught."

"As incredibly lame a sentence as that was... why am I still turned on?"

"...because you're a man, and the bar is truly that low."

"Touché."

(His outstretched nude body in close proximity to her spry little doll hands certainly isn't helping.)

She tugs experimentally on the knots, first at his wrists, then at his feet, beaming when they're to her satisfaction.

"Yay."

"Find a less sexy word than 'yay'," he mutters.

She yanks on one of the ankle straps, _hard_ , until he yelps. Her smile returns.

"Yay."

"So, this is, what - some sort of... Pagan sex ritual?"

She stares at him in disbelief. When he offers no further conjecture, she groans.

"Wow. I knew you were vanilla, but this is pathetic."

"I am _not_ vanilla! Back in Capitalist Emulsifcation's touring days--" her eyes just about roll out of her head "--I performed the kind of sexual wizardry you can only dream about! You're the one trying to put some sort of... sex hex on me, Sabrina!"

She crosses her arms over her chest. He ignores the slender line of her neck, the contrast of her black lingerie to her freakishly pale skin. Like he even _cares_ \- goth went out in the eighties, or at least it should have.

(This is an itch that needs scratched, that's _all_ , his only reason for agreeing to her bored offer for drunk casual sex in the first place, and he has absolutely not wondered about the precise color and cut of her underwear ever since he fell under the evil spell of Fairbell's weird sex tape and sniffed her hair outside the multipurpose room, nor before that, spurred by the odd arousal he'd tamp down if she started passionately yelling during their late night political arguments.)

" _This_ ," she explains in the patronizing tone that he imagines makes kids never want to enter the library, ever, "is a form of bondage."

"Uh, yeah. Duh."

She's unimpressed by his sudden bravado.

"But the _purpose_ of this exercise," she continues in that same infuriating tone, "is to see how long you can make it without screaming."

His smile fades.

"What?"

Quick as a wink, she vaults herself over the edge of the bedframe, crawling up the length of his body. Before he has a chance to even enjoy the sensation of her skin against his, she's perched at his throat, draping her thighs over his shoulders.

"I'm sorry," she says, sweetly. As if she hasn't just perfected a new kind of torture, with her body grazing his while his own is tied up too tightly to do anything truly satisfying about it. "What I meant was - how long _I_ can go without screaming. We'll get to that other part later."

She lifts herself up using the headboard, angling over him until the lacy edge of her black slip goes from brushing the tops of her thighs to tickling the tip of his nose, and he finally gets his answer to the underwear question - none of the above.

"Uh, I--" he stammers. "I, um, I was--"

She casts him a quick, questioning glance, but he shuts up, not ready to spit out the safe word just yet (Red Vines, of fucking _course_ ). If this is what it takes to get her to admit they're friends again, then so be it.

(After all, you can't be friends with benefits unless you're already friends - haha, just try wriggling out of _that_ one, Abbey!)


End file.
